I’d been staring out of my bedroom window at the chestnut tree for almost two hours and had only written four words. Mother and Mae were setting the table for lunch. I could hear the clatter of china and their laughter, and smell the pork fatback wafting from the reheated pot of brown beans. I pressed my pencil to the paper, as if the action would force the words, but nothing came. I was supposed to be writing a news piece for the Review about the upcoming Preakness Stakes at Morris Park Racecourse, but couldn’t settle my mind. It was Charlie’s wedding day. He’d be married in a matter of hours and the possibility that our friendship could be salvaged would be over. I’d made excuses to be home all week, thinking that at the last moment, he’d change his mind and come for me, but it was clear he was moving forward. Perhaps it was better this way. Our relationship had always been passionate, accented by arguments and apologies, but in the midst of heartbreak, I’d forgotten our fights, our immaturity.
I glanced at my dresser drawer containing my book, and then at the roaring fire next to it. The pages only reminded me of something that didn’t exist. And, according to Mr. Hopper, it wasn’t good anyway. I rolled my eyes at his chiding voice in my head telling me that that’s not what he’d meant and reached into the drawer. I’d expected that it wouldn’t be perfect, but he’d pointed out so many flaws in my writing I didn’t know if I had the skill to fix them. Perhaps I was only fooling myself by thinking I could become a published novelist.
The notebook was worn and familiar in my hand as I flipped it open.
At a young age, you never have to try to be happy. You just are. That’s how Carlisle and I were from the beginning—young and happy and carefree, unaffected by what we should do or who we should be.
The base of my neck tensed. “My heart. You have it.” As much as I wanted to ignore it, a naïve part of me believed Charlie. But he’d chosen. I caught my reflection in the mirror and swallowed hard as the image of Cherie’s painting flew into my mind. That would never be me; I wouldn’t allow it. Nothing, not the memory of what could’ve been or even Charlie himself could take my art from me. It was mine. I looked down at the page and closed the book, putting it back in the drawer. I couldn’t burn it. I’d take Mr. Hopper’s advice and make it better. I didn’t care if publication was improbable. If it could make even one person remember who they were before adulthood set in with its social structure and rules, perhaps they’d be saved from the prison of Cherie’s reality and Charlie’s future.
“Mother!” Franklin’s voice rang through the windows. He’d been scarce at home for a month—traveling up to Maine for work and then to a funeral in Stamford, Connecticut, of a friend I’d never heard of. At first I thought I was hearing things, before he yelled again. A strange chugging sound came from outside, like a metal ball being shaken in a tin can, and I ran to the window. I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but the automobile was still there, black paint gleaming in the afternoon light. Franklin lounged against the leather backrest, cigar clutched between his teeth, arm slung across the pink and white velvet ribbons along the standing collar of Lydia’s long wool coat. Mr. Trent tilted his head toward Franklin, said something, and laughed, his breath vaporizing in the winter air. He straightened as Mother appeared below me, dropped the butter knife she was holding, and clasped her hands to her mouth. Not bothering to wait for her response, I flew down the stairs and out the front door.
“What . . . where did you get this?” Mother asked. Franklin swiveled a lever next to him to stop the motor.
“I just bought it from John Hopper. I worked out a deal before he went out of town for the weekend. It’s yours. I had a little extra money and thought you shouldn’t be walking to your errands anymore.” I stared at it, unsure what to say or how he could’ve possibly afforded it. We’d been five dollars short on our bills last month. This kind of extravagance was reckless. We didn’t even have anywhere to store it beyond Grandfather’s old rickety garden shed out back. Franklin jumped down from his seat, helped Lydia out, and leaned to hug Mother who continued to gaze at it without blinking. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She’d always been adamant that wealth didn’t make a person happy, and had always encouraged us to be content with a simple life.
“We’ll speak about this later, of course, but it’s a lovely gift, dear.” Mother smiled, giving none of her emotion away.
“Mr. Trent, did you know about this?” Mae asked, untying the white linen apron around her yellow velvet skirt. She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand and wrapped her arm across her body to block the cold as she descended the remaining steps. Mr. Trent walked toward her, reaching to clutch her hands, and I thought of Charlie gripping my own but pushed the sensation away. It was time to move on.
“Not at all. I was just sitting in my room studying when I heard my name being shouted from the street. I looked out and it was ol’ Frank yelling at me to come take a ride to the Bronx in his new Benz.” Mr. Trent leaned down to kiss Mae’s hand and my mother smiled at them for a moment before turning back to Franklin and the wagon.
“Do you like it, Gin? You haven’t said a word.” Franklin pulled Lydia behind him as he started up the walk.
“Ginny,” Lydia said, breaking from Franklin to wrap her arm across my shoulders. “You know you’ve never seen anything more handsome in your life.” She leaned in to my ear. “The Benz’s nice, but I’m speaking of Franklin, you know. I’ve missed you since the last meeting. I hope we’ll be sisters some day.”
“I’d love that,” I whispered back, squeezing her hand and trying to swallow the lump of irritation that had suddenly manifested in my throat. As warm and lovely as Lydia was, I wondered if some of Franklin’s sudden tendency toward extravagance had something to do with impressing her. The neighbors across from us had taken notice of the automobile and were now congregating on their front porch staring at it as though a dragon had materialized in the street.
“So?” Franklin asked again, turning to look at me. “You like it, don’t you?” I nodded, amused by the goofy grin on my brother’s face.
“It’s lovely, Frank,” I said, leaning in to him, “but how could we afford it? We weren’t even able to pay our debts last month. We haven’t bought groceries or coal or . . .” I drifted off and stepped back to glance at the automobile once more. The silver spokes glittered in the afternoon sun. “Aren’t automobiles nearly one thousand dollars?” Franklin cocked an eyebrow at me and shook his head.
“They certainly are. If not more than that.” Bessie’s voice came from the porch behind me. She was wearing a new dress made of blue and cream brocaded taffeta, complemented by long suede gloves with a mousquetaire wrist opening. Our accumulating debt hadn’t affected her spending habits. “The Carnegies just bought a Million and Guiet Chariot D’Orsay the other week for well over two thousand, and it’s not even motorized. At least that’s what T—” She stopped abruptly and I turned to find her staring at Lydia. Bess’s face paled, making her upswept auburn hair appear shockingly red against her skin.
“You’re the woman I saw . . . who I saw . . .” Lydia stuttered, glancing over at my mother standing next to Mae and then back at Bessie. “That I saw talking to my brother the other evening.” Bessie swallowed hard and nodded mechanically, causing the plume of turkey feathers jutting from the brim of her trilby hat to quiver. Alevia appeared in the doorframe behind her, grinning at Bessie’s back. Had Bess told Alevia about her and Mr. Blaine? I wondered where Lydia had come across them and what exactly they’d been doing.
“You know Mr. Blaine, Bess?” I asked. Bessie’s eyes met mine, wide and pleading.
“I do. We met at the Astors’ one afternoon,” she said softly. “He’s very nice.” Shooting me a thin smile, Bessie turned on her heel and walked into the house. Lydia grabbed my arm, and leaned into my ear.
“I caught them kissing in our laundry a few days ago. I had no idea she was your sister,” she whispered, then shrugged. The thought that they’d been kissing shocked me. As far as I knew, he hadn’t even attempted to properly court her. “I suppose I’d be more upset if I thought you were interested in Tom. You’re not, are you?”
“No.” I softened my tone. “He’s kind and smart and we’ll be good friends, but—” I started, but she smiled and shook her head, cutting me off.
“You don’t need to explain,” she said. “Sometimes it fits, sometimes it doesn’t. I tried to make it work with my last beau for far too long. Only in the wake of his brother’s death did it become evident that I hadn’t been imagining his alternating tendency for seclusion and madness . . . and then I found your charming, compassionate brother.” She patted my arm. “It’s best to be true to yourself.” She let me go and walked toward Mother, the hem of lace ribbons along her ivory dress fluttering from beneath her coat in the wind. Franklin started to follow her, but I caught his sleeve.
“Frank. How much was it and how could you possibly afford it?” I asked under my breath. He stared at me blankly and I tipped my head at the gleaming automobile.
“Oh.” Franklin squinted toward the Benz. “Well, I got a raise at work—a large one—and thought that with the bonus I might get us something nice.” I stared at him skeptically.
“Something nice is a new suit.”
“I told you it’s secondhand . . . if that helps you reconcile the extravagance,” he said. “The paint is chipped off on the right side. John was trying to get rid of it and gave me a good deal—three-fifty—which is exactly ten dollars less than I had . . . after I paid the rest of our debt at the Building and Loan.” I patted him on the back, hugely relieved.
“It’s lovely.”
“Don’t be so disappointed in me, Gin. We won’t be destitute because of it. I’ll be making much more from now on anyway.” His eyes broke from mine and he glanced toward Charlie’s house, no doubt hoping they’d look out and notice that the Loftins weren’t so poor after all, but the windows had been dark since yesterday. I’d watched them leave—the luggage, followed by Mrs. Aldridge. Charlie had come out of the house last. He’d turned around the side of the coach and looked up at my window. We’d stared at each other for a moment, neither of us bothering to smile. There was no reason to pretend. He’d lifted his hand to me before disappearing into the coach.
Something—perhaps the excitement of our new automobile—seemed to distract me from thinking of Charlie’s wedding, and I’d retired to my room feeling as if I had enough strength to begin to revise my book. I went through the first half of it in a few hours—striking out sentences, tightening my prose—but when I reached the party scene, I stopped, unable to continue. I could still see Charlie’s face, feel the heat of the bodies around me, smell the alcohol in the air. The tightness across my chest returned. I glanced down at the page for the fifth time and forced myself to read it.
And then he turned to me, got down on one knee, and asked if I’d be his wife.
From that sentence on, my book was a lie. In the haze of mourning, I’d created an alternate outcome that would seem beautiful to the reader, but it wasn’t the truth. Mr. Hopper was right; it didn’t seem real. That’s what he had been getting at when he’d told me that he was bored with the characters’ lives, that he found them flat and one-dimensional. His criticism still clenched my heart, but now I understood. If I was going to write a fictionalized account of our lives, it would have to be honest and I’d have to live the pain again—even if I chose to write us together in the end. Charlie would have to propose to someone else. I plucked my pencil from behind my ear and struck the sentence out. Flipping the page, I heard my doorknob twist, and looked up in time to see Bess walk into my room and close the door.
“Before you say anything, let me speak.” She lifted her palm toward me as if I were about to launch into a lecture and sat down on the chair next to my dressing table. Her face was flushed. I opened my mouth, starting to say that she didn’t need to explain her relationship with Mr. Blaine, but she made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and waved her hand at me. “I don’t know what nonsense Miss Blaine has told you . . . or perhaps it was Alevia, but I’d like the chance to set the account straight before you tell Mother.” Bessie’s eyes narrowed.
“When’s the last time I tattled on you, Bess? Honestly.”
“You jumped at the chance to do so outside, did you not?” She asked, voice rising in irritation.
“Calm down!” I hissed. “The last thing you want is Lydia hearing you.”
“She’s been gone for at least an hour. Frank took her home.” Bessie drew a breath, pinched her full bottom lip and sighed, leaning against the chair back. “Mr. Blaine told me he met you and that the two of you were planning to exchange your work, so I figured it’d come out eventually, but I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know that Miss Blaine was so familiar with Franklin.” She picked at her fingernails and then looked at me. I pointedly glanced down at my notebook wishing she’d get on with it. “I was walking out of the Astors’ one day after dropping off a hat and ran smack into Mr. Blaine coming through the door. It was like one of those things you read about. We stood staring at each other for what felt like minutes and then he reached for my hand and introduced himself. When my hand touched his, Gin . . . I don’t know how to explain it. It felt like I’d lifted out of my body and taken to floating.” Her fingers rose to her mouth, no doubt remembering his kisses a few days prior.
“I know how it feels,” I said, remembering the light-headed feeling that always came when Charlie was close. The hair along my arms rose remembering the first time he’d held me. It had been at a ball celebrating Cherie’s engagement about four years back. I’d been occupied most of the night by Cherie’s much older, though handsome, cousin, Andrew Emerson, and had been quite taken with him—until Charlie, at the conclusion of our sixth dance, came behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me away. To this day, I’m unsure if Charlie was jealous of him or just tired of making small talk with well-meaning women, but I could still smell the wood smoke in his hair, the musky scent of exertion on his skin, and knew I hadn’t taken a breath while we’d danced.
“Mr. Blaine must’ve asked Mrs. Astor where I lived, because I received a letter the following day asking if I’d meet him to walk along the High Bridge.” Bessie smiled, ignoring me.
“And you went? You didn’t tell any of us. You didn’t even know him.” My forehead scrunched, wondering how in the world she’d talked herself into meeting a stranger alone.
“He’s a Blaine,” she said. “I knew he’d do me no harm.” I forced my lips into a grin to keep from groaning, knowing if William Hughes down the street had asked the same, she’d find it insulting.
“He’s already done you harm,” I said evenly. “You’ve compromised yourself and your reputation by . . . well . . . doing whatever you were doing when Lydia caught you.” My face was hot and Bess laughed.
“That’s ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “We were only kissing.” Bessie looked down and I knew then that she’d done much more than that. “Surely nothing you haven’t already done with Charlie.”
“He’s never kissed me,” I said softly. He’d never tried. Regardless of his supposed love for me, I’d been easy to resist. “And he’s certainly never seen me undressed.” I said it slyly to see if she’d take the bait and she did, hands bunching nervously in her blue skirt.
“He . . . he only lifted my skirt to my knees. I stopped him after that even though I wanted him to . . . I didn’t want to stop him,” Bessie stuttered. I gaped at her as she swallowed hard, composing herself. “To be honest, I would’ve married him then and there and still would. He’s impossible to refuse. I’m not sure I’ll be able to the next time.” I didn’t understand how she’d fallen prey to him. His egoism was hardly charming.
“If that’s the case, then stop putting yourself in those kinds of positions,” I said.
“I want him, Gin, and I’ll have him. I’ll marry him,” she said fiercely, jolting forward in the chair as if someone had pushed her. “This is my chance, don’t you see? My opportunity to be happy, to stop working so hard. Please don’t take him from me.” I looked at her as if she’d just sprouted antlers, wondering what in the world she was talking about.
“Why would I?” I grimaced and shook my head. “I don’t find him the least bit appealing.” Bessie’s blue eyes widened at my words.
“Really? He mentioned that Lydia had introduced the two of you at one of Mr. Hopper’s little get-togethers a few months back—something neither you nor Franklin had the decency to invite me to—because Lydia thought you’d be a good match for him.”
I shrugged.
“That’s Lydia’s opinion.” I couldn’t imagine having to listen adoringly to Mr. Blaine’s narcissistic stories for the rest of my life.
“Maybe you’re telling the truth, but I think that Charlie’s broken your heart so badly you’ll try anything to get over him.” I bristled. She knew nothing of how I felt. She hadn’t bothered to ask. “I’ve got to get down to O’Neill’s to pay for the order that Mrs. Goelet just canceled.” Bessie stood up so quickly that the chair tipped backward, then dropped into place with a clatter. I knew she was hurt and didn’t mean it, but her words stung. Her affection had been disregarded once before by George Vanderbilt, a man she had no business loving in the first place. Mistaking his kindness at parties for interest, she’d convinced herself that he loved her despite the disparity between our status and theirs—until it was announced that he’d proposed to Edith Dresser, a wealthy distant cousin of Charlie’s. Bess was just afraid of being overlooked again.
I looked down at my scrawl in the notebook in front of me and thanked God for my passion for something other than the futile pursuit of men. I hadn’t even chased after Charlie. Love was something I couldn’t control, but I could control my words, and I planned to make something of them.
Hours later I was in the same place, reading over the same sentence, thinking about how I’d react if Charlie came back to me years later. I couldn’t just throw this revision together hoping it would be better than the first. I needed to know it would be. I couldn’t bear another brutal critique from Mr. Hopper.
“Ginny? Are you all right?” I turned toward the door to find Alevia looking at me, head tilted to the side at my unblinking stare out of the windows in front of me.
“Of course. I was just thinking,” I said. Alevia leaned forward, craning her neck over my shoulder to glance at my notebook.
“Writer’s block.” She shook her head, fiddled with the single drop pearl on her necklace.
“Not quite. I’m trying to figure out where I want it to go next,” I said.
“Oh, I see. The same thing happens to me when the music doesn’t flow. I can’t play.” I smiled at her, doubting this happened very often, if at all. You could set about any piece in front of her and she’d play it flawlessly the first time. “Sometimes I play best when I’m in the warehouse at Estey. No one can hear me over the noise of the machines, so I just play through the wrong notes and bad tuning. That’s where I figure it out. Maybe you need a change of scenery.” I knew she was right. I’d confined my work to my bedroom for far too long. “It’ll come to you.” Alevia patted my back. For years she’d traveled down the block to the Estey Piano Factory once a week to test their pianos. I knew she’d started doing it as a favor for Mother and Father’s friend John Simpson, who’d needed someone at the beginning of his and Jacob Estey’s venture in the Bronx. After they were on their feet, Alevia had continued going for the money—or so I’d thought. I’d had no idea that she actually enjoyed it. “And if that doesn’t work, try writing something else. Give yourself a break and then come back to it.”
“Maybe I’ll try,” I said, and she smiled, brown eyes warming. “When’s your next audition with the Symphony?”
“I’m not sure,” she said softly. “Lydia said that she hasn’t had an opportunity to speak with Damrosch about it yet. It’ll be a wonderful opportunity whenever it happens.”
“It’s going to happen.”
“I hope so, Gin. I really do.”
After another hour of staring at the wall, I started down the stairs thinking I’d take Alevia’s advice after all. I could hear her playing in the drawing room, the quick notes of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 15 flying through the air.
I pulled my grandmother’s old mink coat over my shoulders and walked two miles to the library in the blistering cold. I tipped my head at the librarian, Miss Gills, and made my way to the new Brittanica encyclopedias. If I couldn’t think through my novel, I could at least attempt to find a topic for the story I’d submit to The Century. The Century was known for its emphasis on history, especially little-known stories painting a romantic picture of American life. When dusk came, I left the library with a page of ideas from the historic importance of Anne Bradstreet’s poetry to the story of Mary Musgrove. I had no idea which subject to choose, but at least I had a start.
I was exhausted when I reached home, but I made my way down the hall toward the parlor, thinking that I’d sit in Father’s rickety old chair in hopes of conjuring his storytelling prowess. Passing the kitchen, I laughed at Mother covered in flour, mixing dough in a copper bowl. She glanced up, wiped the flour from her eyelashes, and pointed to a loaf pan in the open oak cupboard. The glass flour canister had tumbled over on the top shelf and white dust sprinkled down the ledges, pooling on the floor. I started to wipe the shelves, but Mother grunted and gestured to the loaf pan again.
“Have you lost your voice, or are you thinking of going into miming?”
She smiled and swabbed the flour from her face, taking the pan from my hand.
“Lord knows I can’t stand to keep silent, but perhaps I should give it a try.” She laughed. “It would make good sense for me to do something in the arts. My children are so very talented, but everyone knows your gifts come from your father, while your determination comes from me.” She winked. From time to time she’d tell us of her childhood attempts at drawing and poetry and music. The stories were always amusing. Her parents had hired the best tutors, sure that their daughter had some sort of artistic talent that would woo a society man to her side, but Mother had always purposely failed, choosing instead to occupy her time teaching her dolls to read or write.
Mother spooned the sourdough batter into the pan and reached out to clutch my wrist. She glanced at the notebook in my hand and then looked up at me. “I know that your father understood your writing in a way I never will. Your soul is identical to his, just as Mae’s is to mine, but I want you to know that I’m just as proud of you as he was, Virginia.” Her eyes glistened and she released me.
“Thank you, Mother.” I rested a hand on her back, on the worn checkered fabric, and headed for the parlor. Passing the dining room, I caught the small gold frame on the buffet as I went by. It held the only photo I’d ever seen of my parents together, standing side by side against the front door. They’d both always heralded their instantaneous love, saying that fate placed them beside each other on the ferry to Randall’s Island that day. Father was going to meet his friends to fish and Mother was late for a family picnic. Neither of them made it to their obligations, choosing instead to ride back and forth from Manhattan to Randall’s Island until the ferry stopped running. It had nearly killed my mother when he died. I wondered if love like that could occur even after two people broke each other’s hearts. I wanted to think it couldn’t, but I knew deep down that even though the tainted shadow of betrayal would never fully disappear, I would consider it if Charlie came back to me. The thought made me angry, more at myself than at him, but it was honest and I’d have to be honest if I was going to write about us.
I reached to push the door to the parlor open, but froze at the sound of Mr. Trent’s voice. He finished his sentence and I heard my sister respond, her high pitch an indistinguishable blur to my ears.
“I know, my dear,” he continued, “but I have to tell you so that you know, even if you insist the past doesn’t matter.” I could see them through the crack in the door. Mr. Trent’s lanky frame was bent toward Mae across from him, dark heads nearly touching across the coffee table. I knew I should walk away but my feet refused to move. If he was about to tell her something awful, I’d need to know so that I could comfort her. Mae sighed and reached to hold his hand. I knew that she wasn’t being dishonest; she really didn’t care about his past. She’d always been that way, loving people for who they were at the moment. Mae whispered something to him. He lifted his hand to stroke her cheek and then bent forward to kiss her forehead. Leaning away from her, he kept hold of her hand and looked at her seriously.
“I’ve been married before.” He said it so quickly that it took me a moment to process the sentence. His face was ashen and Mae withdrew her hand to stand up and cross to the window. She turned to face Mr. Trent when she reached the windowsill, the afternoon light catching her brown hair. Her forehead was creased in thought, but she smiled at him. He made a coughing noise as if he were choking.
“I was young.” His voice was wracked with a tension that wavered with forced steadiness. “So was she. It was w-when Father and I were living in Vermont, when I was helping with his doctoring.” He ran a hand through his hair, then dipped his head, holding his face in his hands. “Miss Loftin . . . Mae, I love you,” he said abruptly and she nodded, still smiling, though I thought I saw tears in her eyes. “Her name was Emily. Father treated her mother for an infected wound and I helped. They . . . Father and her mother, I mean, thought we’d be a good match. I found her enjoyable and pretty, so I married her.” Mae’s face drained at the last bit and she began to fidget, lifting her wrist to stare at the brass button on the cuff of her hunter green sleeve.
“What happened?” Mae whispered, unable to look up from her hands.
“She’s . . .” Mr. Trent cleared his throat loudly and coughed. “She’s dead, Mae. So is our daughter. They died in childbirth.” Mae looked at him, eyes wide in horror. I clapped my hand over my mouth. Mae moved from the window, crouched down next to him, and clutched both of his hands.
“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” she whispered. “Your poor wife and child.” The hair along my arms stood on end. It wasn’t that I hadn’t heard of women dying in childbirth, it was fairly commonplace—but it had never happened to anyone close to me, and the thought of it swept over me like a frigid wind.
“Thank you,” Mr. Trent said softly. “It was a few years ago.” He was crying now and Mae lifted her hand to wipe his cheeks, letting the tears she’d been holding back escape her own lids. He sniffed and pulled her up from the floor, gathering her to him. “Mae, she’s not my wife anymore,” he said, smoothing a stray tendril back from her face. “And I loved her like a husband should, but I love you so differently, so completely.” My heart warmed. Ashamed to be eavesdropping on a conversation so tender, I walked toward my father’s study, thinking that if Mr. Trent didn’t ask her to marry him right then, it wouldn’t be long.
Whether it was Alevia’s advice or Henry and Mae’s exchange that spurred inspiration, I’d rewritten three chapters in an hour and a half. Heartache was easy to write. It was sadly familiar—the feeling of complete desperation, worthlessness, and the elusive hope that Charlie would come back. The fictional encounter of his return flowed out of my head and onto the paper as easily as the Harlem River into the East. But now I sat back, stuck again, having no idea what I’d write next, staring at the tiny deer head above the mantel across from me, wondering why someone hadn’t taken it down after my grandfather’s death. He’d apparently been very proud of killing it when they’d first taken up residence here, back when Morrisania consisted of a few brave houses surrounded by rolling hills. Now it didn’t fit. Life would have been so different then—even in my parents’ generation—so simple on the surface, yet tainted to the core by the dim complexities of war.
I remembered my parents talking about it from time to time, about the war and the battle that killed my grandfather at the age of forty-two. My father had never fully recovered from his grief. I glanced across the desk, eyeing a frame that held an old photograph of the Lincolns. Mother once told me that everyone had been so affected by the war and the valiance of the president during it, that when Lincoln’s body rolled into town on its sixteen-hundred-mile funeral tour, she and her sisters had taken the train in from the country to see it, waiting five hours for a chance to pass his coffin. To this day, whenever the war or the president is brought up, she still comments on his face, saying that his wrinkles were deeper than any man’s she’d ever seen and that it had almost made her happy that he’d passed on from his life of hardship.
That was it. An idea lodged in my brain and I pushed my notebook out of the way, snatching a clean sheet of paper from the top of my father’s desk drawer. Remembering my parents’ recollections had conjured the perfect topic for The Century, something I was sure Mr. Gilder would jump at the chance to publish—the controversial tale of Emilie Todd Helm. Emilie was Mary Lincoln’s sister and the wife of an esteemed Confederate general. Straddling both sides of the war, she’d been portrayed as the strong, beautiful heroine of the Confederacy in some circles and the traitorous plague infecting the sensibilities of the White House in others. After the war, the controversy over her had faded, as controversies do, and her memory had mostly been ignored. But my grandfather, who’d met her once when she’d accompanied the Lincolns on a tour after her husband’s death, had never forgotten “the young rebel woman with the kind face”—passing the remembrance along to my father who’d passed it to me.
The story spilled out of me and onto the page, and before I knew it, I was almost finished. I couldn’t wait to read it at the next Society meeting and to show Mr. Blaine. The door creaked open, disturbing my focus on the last sentence, and I stopped to glance toward it, expecting it to be Mae and Mr. Trent sharing the news of their engagement, but it was Franklin. Lugging an easel and a blank canvas, Frank paused in the doorway, slung the canvas under his arm, and then carried both toward me. Amused, I grinned as he set it down on the oriental rug in front of the desk.
“What’s that for?” I asked. Franklin straightened up and took a breath.
“Alevia told me you were having trouble with your book.” He smoothed the edges of his starched cuffs with his fingers and looked at me. “Hopper told me that he sometimes paints whatever he’s trying to get out. He says the words come easily after you have something visual, plus you’ve had all of the time painting to think it through.” I looked at him doubtfully and Franklin rolled his eyes. “Try it.”
“You’ve seen my paintings,” I said.
“Your landscapes aren’t bad, actually. In any case, I’m not suggesting you should be the next Thomas Eakins, but you could try to paint something to conjure the image in your head when you forget the words.”
“It’s worth a try.” He smiled victoriously and I surveyed his suit. It looked different from the one he’d been wearing that morning. This one had light gray pinstripes. “Is that a new suit, Frank?” He looked down at his pants and pinched the fabric.
“No. Well, I mean, I suppose. I got it in Maine when I was on business there a few weeks back.”
“Part of your bonus?” He glared at me, but nodded.
“I can’t exactly go around looking like a ragamuffin. Especially when I’m working and trying to give off the impression that people should listen to me. Speaking of fashion, you should have a new dress made. We’ll have more than enough and I’ll give you the money when I get paid at the—”
“Are you sure all of this extravagance—the Benz, your new suits—isn’t because you’re trying to impress Lydia?” I interrupted. Franklin shook his head.
“She doesn’t care about things like that.” She didn’t seem concerned with money, though I doubted that she was indifferent. She was society. That kind of influence didn’t slip past without a little bit of it sticking to one’s bones.
“On another note, where in the world are you going to park the Benz?” I asked. “It’ll be ruined in Grandfather’s old barn.”
“I’ll inquire after space in a carriage house,” he said, exasperated. “In any case, I didn’t come in here to be interrogated about my spending habits, Gin, I was just trying to help.” He ran a hand across the top of the desk and then pointed to the drawer at my side. “I paint in this room sometimes. There are some oil paints in here if you decide you’re going to give it a try.”
“Thank you,” I said. He started to walk away, but I stopped him. “I’m sorry for saying anything. It’s just that it’s quite difficult to stop distressing about money when we’ve lived so cautiously for years. I know you’re only trying to provide for us with Father gone.”
“Not just provide for us,” he said bluntly. “I plan to make this family something again. A name people will have to respect, not just for our abilities, but for our innovation and our drive.”
“What does it matter what people think? We’re all happy,” I said. “We don’t have to live extravagantly just because you think that having things will remedy what happened to me and Charlie or keep them from happening to you and Lydia. If Charlie really loved me, he would’ve been with me regardless.” Franklin’s eyes dropped to the floor.
“Maybe,” he said. “Oh, I almost forgot. John’s out of town, but he gave me a note for you when I stopped by to pick up the Benz.” Franklin reached into his pocket, drew out an envelope and tossed it to me. I pushed it to the side of the desk and Franklin stared at me. “Aren’t you going to read it?” He looked at me as though all correspondence addressed to someone else should be shared, but as I didn’t mind in this case, I ripped the flap open, unfolded the letter, and read it aloud.
Dearest Miss Loftin,
I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to send you a bit of encouragement as you revise your book. Your writing is truly remarkable and your sense of imagination is evident—not only in your novel, but also in your wit, an attribute that I’ve had the wonderful fortune of experiencing over the past several weeks. I hope you won’t find this too forward of me, but I’d like to take you to the opera upon my return next week. They’re performing the marvelous La bohème. If you agree, I’ll come to retrieve you at half past five next Saturday evening.
All of my regards,
John Hopper
His sentiments weighed on my heart. He was interested in me beyond friendship, beyond helping with my novel—at least that was what the letter implied, though I couldn’t help questioning his words. I recalled the way he looked at me, the way he touched me. I could still feel the heat on my cheeks, attraction in the pit of my stomach. He was immensely talented, charming, easy to converse with, and undeniably handsome, but men of such character often were. And even if he hadn’t made a habit of discombobulating women, I didn’t know if I could bear the ambiguity that came with a courtship.
“So?” Franklin asked. Grinning, he smoothed the corners of his mustache. “Are you as fond of him as he is of you?”
“No,” I said. The word came out much more quickly than I intended, and it was wrong. “I mean, I do enjoy his company, and he and I have a lot in common, but I’m not sure. People say that he . . .” I felt my face flush. His confidence was magnetic. Franklin laughed.
“How shall I put it . . . enjoys a variety of women?” He shook his head. “It’s perfectly all right if you’re not certain about him, but there’s no validity to that rumor, Gin. John is friendly, likely the most social man I’ve ever met. He can hardly help acquiring such a reputation. I hope you’ll give him a chance. For his sake as well as yours.” I took his meaning and nodded, thankful that he hadn’t uttered Charlie’s name. Even so, the last time Charlie held me manifested in my mind, the way his fingers twitched with nerves as he’d brushed the hair from my forehead. I forced the memory away and thought of Mr. Hopper, the disparity between the two suddenly clear.
“I suppose I’d like to get to know him better,” I said. Franklin smiled at me and tapped the doorframe.
“Perhaps he’ll surprise you.”